


A Matter Of Affection

by Ariana (ariana_paris)



Series: A Matter of... [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bottom!Sherlock, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-17
Updated: 2012-03-10
Packaged: 2017-10-31 08:08:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariana_paris/pseuds/Ariana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <a href="http://ariana-paris.livejournal.com/8749.html">A Matter of Convenience</a>, wherein Sherlock and John became lovers. While John and Sherlock are (mostly) okay with the sex, they find other aspects of their changed relationship more of a challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The show Sherlock and that incarnation of its characters belong to the BBC, the show's writers and its actors.  
> Warning: Rated for naughty bits. No significant spoilers except a mention of Irene Adler's profession.  
> Beta: The ever amazing 01cheers who doesn't even like Sherlock and his cheekbones. ;)

  
Sherlock was doing his Thing. Strutting around the crime scene, observing minute scratches on items John hadn't even noticed, sniffing apparently random objects -- even the victim's tights, much to Anderson's visible disgust -- and climbing up onto the narrow window sill to look at the room from a different angle. John watched his small, shrewd eyes surveying the scene and felt a familiar surge of awe and admiration. Even after all this time, all the crime scenes they had visited together, John loved watching Sherlock in action.

Sherlock let out a sigh of irritation and jumped down from the window ledge. He strode straight out of the victim's bedroom, flicking a finger at John as he passed.

"John, come."

John was amazed Sherlock didn’t pat his thigh, as one would when calling a dog. Lestrade gave him a sympathetic look as he followed his annoying flatmate into the hallway outside.

"John, I can't concentrate," said Sherlock in a low voice, apparently unnerved, even though he had seemed his usual self in the victim's bedroom. "I can't stop thinking about last night."

"Oh." John couldn't suppress a wide grin. "Yes, yes, that was pretty good."

"You were _amazing_ ," insisted Sherlock, and that bit of unselfconscious flattery almost made up for all the humiliations of living with someone so stubborn and insensitive. "I can still _feel_ it inside. I don't mean that literally," he added at John's raised eyebrow.

John swallowed. "No, well. I was just concerned you might be, um, sore."

Sherlock stared at him as if he had never been sore in his life. "That's not the point. I can't focus. How do people do this? How can they do their normal work when they're also having sex with someone?"

"They compartmentalise. Think about the _amazing_ sex when they're on a break or something," said John, trying to keep a straight face. He cleared his throat and continued as quietly as he could, conscious of the many people milling around the crime scene. "It gets easier. We've only been doing this for a few days and this is the first new case you’ve been involved in. You just need to take things slowly and get used to the idea of what, well, what we’re doing. And right now, Lestrade and his people are waiting for you, so try to put the sex aside like you normally do everything else, and go back in there and do your Thing.”

“Right. Yes.” Sherlock looked intensely at John’s lips for a second, as if considering whether to kiss him.

“Go!” ordered John, because he really couldn’t trust Sherlock not to act on his impulses, and much as he might fancy a snog -- or indeed a repeat of last night -- John didn’t want the news about them to be broadcast all over Scotland Yard.

Sherlock turned on his heels and stalked back into the bedroom with a swish of his long coat. Amused by the whole incident, John followed him back in. It seemed that Sherlock had taken John’s advice on board, because it only took a moment longer for his eyes to light up and a torrent of words to escape his mouth.

“The victim’s parents say she locked herself in this room after an argument and they heard a commotion. This led them to think that she had been abducted like previous victims of the Clapham Kidnapper as our glorious press likes to call him. I should have realised this immediately, of course -- too distracted thinking about sex with John to see the _obvious_ until now. There is no victim here! It is a very straightforward case of a young girl wanting to run away from home and seizing a headline story as her escape route. It should have been immediately apparent even to you, Lestrade, and certainly something that Donovan should have noticed, even though her mastery of the art of makeup leaves much to be desired. This girl is wearing makeup in all the photographs we have seen of her. And yet, where is it? Where is her makeup bag? Sometimes it is as important to observe what is missing as what you can see--”

John had long since stopped listening to Sherlock’s exposition of how bloody brilliant he was. Judging by the fact that everyone else in the room was staring at him rather than the detective, John surmised that no one else was listening either. He fervently hoped his cheeks weren’t as red as they felt.

“Erm, I’ll-- I think I’ll just go and get some lunch,” he muttered to no one in particular, rushing out of the room before anyone could talk to him.

When he returned, a thin plastic bag dangling from his fingers, he found Anderson and Donovan standing in the doorway to the building, no doubt waiting for the DI to wrap things up so they could go back to New Scotland Yard.

“Hello there, lover boy,” said Donovan with a laugh. “Freak finally made an honest man of you, did he?”

John could imagine that the whole of Scotland Yard had heard about Sherlock’s slip of the tongue by now. Trust Sherlock to make sure everyone they knew was informed of the fact they were shagging before the first week was out. Sherlock had told Mrs Hudson that he’d had “his brains shagged out” the morning after their first night together, and now he’d told everyone they worked with in the Metropolitan Police. John imagined that Molly Hooper and Mycroft Holmes would receive their own version of the Sherlock “yay, we’re shagging” greetings card before long.

He sighed. Oh well. They were mature adults enjoying a physical and emotional relationship -- inasmuch as Sherlock could be said to have any emotions -- and John had nothing to be ashamed of. Since Anderson and Donovan didn’t taunt him by gleefully declaring that Sherlock had wandered off without him, John assumed his partner was still inside. He held his head up high and pushed past the two officers.

“I wonder which one of them takes it up the arse,” said Anderson as John passed him. “Must be the freak. You can just tell he’s a raving queen.”

Approximately twelve seconds later, John's fist was throbbing with pain and his face was pressed hard against the wall.

“John Watson, I am arresting you for assaulting a police officer,” said Donovan, forcing John’s hands behind his back and securing them with a pair of handcuffs.

John was pretty certain handcuffs were unnecessary under the circumstances, but although he knew he’d be more than capable of overpowering Donovan if he put his mind to it, he decided against adding ‘resisting arrest’ to the crimes she was no doubt itching to charge him with.

"What the hell is going on here?" demanded Lestrade, coming down the stairs with Sherlock skulking behind him.

Sherlock glanced around the scene with detachment. "Anderson obviously made some remark about me. A homophobic one I should imagine given what you say I said earlier." He looked at the DI with narrowed eyes as if suspecting him of pulling a fast one on him. "I wouldn't worry about it, John," he added airily, striding past them all with his turned up nose high in the air. "They hate me. They'd make racist remarks if I were black."

"Hey!" protested Donovan.

"Besides, Lestrade, whatever Anderson said must be true or John wouldn't have hit him so hard." And with that, Sherlock stalked out of the house.

"Let Watson go, Donovan," said Lestrade with a long-suffering sigh. "As for you, Anderson, I'll throw the book at you if you pull a stunt like this again. Now go and get that nose seen to."

Freed from Donovan's cuffs, John picked up his carrier bag and hurried after Sherlock, who was already halfway down the street.

"...whereas the kidnapper is obviously toying with the police..." Sherlock was saying. "We will need to return to the place where this all started. We'll do it tonight at the same time the first kidnapping happened. Which is what I should have done in the first place instead of letting Lestrade take me on a wild goose chase. Don't you agree, John?"

"You know, Sherlock, conversations work better when both participants are present," said John, puffing a little from the effort of running after him.

"Where were you anyway?" asked Sherlock, still striding along rapidly.

"Uh, Donovan was arresting me, remember?"

It was possible that Sherlock genuinely didn't remember. After over a year of living with him, nothing would have surprised John.

He nearly ran straight into Sherlock as the amateur detective stopped abruptly at the edge of the pavement, scanning the horizon for a taxi.

"John, do you think I'm weird?" he asked.

"Yes!"

"I mean do you think I'm weird because I enjoy what you did to me last night?"

"No! No, of course not. I don't think that's weird."

Sherlock observed him with curiosity. "But you wouldn't do it yourself."

"Well, um..." John cleared his throat. "I think... we just like different things. Which under the circumstances is a good thing."

"Damn, not a cab in sight. Let's go further up." Sherlock headed up the street. "Is it because it's unhygienic? That's why you use a condom."

"No, Sherlock,” explained John patiently, keeping his voice as quiet as possible so no one would overhear. “We use a condom because you're a former intravenous drug user and I was waiting to see how things went before breaking it to you that you need to be tested for hepatitis, HIV and various other nasties you might have picked up."

"I didn't share needles. It wasn't bloody Trainspotting." Sherlock said it in such a posh, disdainful voice that John had to smile. He was also amused that Trainspotting should be one of the rare contemporary cultural references Sherlock knew off the top of his head. Amused and, to be fair, a little worried.

"So if I had a clean blood test, we would stop using condoms. Would you prefer that?" Sherlock stopped again, forcing John, who had continued walking, to turn back and face him. "But it would still bother you. You don't think you should be buggering me at all."

"No, it wouldn't. It isn't a big deal either way. And don't--" He decided that telling Sherlock not to use the word would just lead to a long conversation about why 'buggery' bothered John. He could tell Sherlock's hyperactive mind was worrying away at something and tried to guess what it might be. "Look, Sherlock, it isn't unhygienic. Well, maybe a bit, but I've done that before, without a condom, and it's fine."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "I thought you'd only ever had girls. Why would you need to do it to a girl?"

"Because she had her period or we had no contraception or she just wanted to try it out or... Look, the point is that it doesn't bother me.” John could tell he wasn’t making any headway in getting his friend’s mind unstuck from the problem. “Sherlock, what has brought this on? Did you hear what Anderson said, is that it? You know he's a prick."

"Yes, I do and no, I didn't hear it. I'm just wondering why you're uncomfortable about us being lovers, that's all. You're the one who was watching gay porn."

"I'm not uncomfortable!" protested John, though he glanced nervously about.

"You left the room when I mentioned it. You overreacted to whatever Anderson said. And right now, you’re talking in a low voice and looking around to make sure no one can overhear us,” said Sherlock, talking loudly and focussing only on John. “And you don't like it when I make noise. You never make noise. You don't really let go. You're not comfortable with having gay sex with me."

John blinked and coughed a little. "I... God, where do I start? I'm not..." He noticed a little old lady giving them a strange look as she hobbled past. "Look, do we have to have this conversation _here_?"

Sherlock crossed his arms. "Yes."

"Oh for goodness' sake. It's like being involved with a two-year-old. I knew this was a bad idea," he exclaimed, gesturing with the hand that wasn’t weighed down by the carrier bag. "I _knew_ you'd throw a tantrum the minute something didn't go your way. That's why I didn't want to go through with it. But no, you had to seduce me with your cheekbones and your, um, taking your clothes off and, er, stuff..." He swallowed, remembering their first night together. "Listen, I am not..."

He realised that telling Sherlock he wasn't uncomfortable was a waste of breath. It wasn't as if Sherlock would believe John's assessment of his state of mind over his own deductions. He sighed.

"This is all new to me too, okay?” he said more softly. “Maybe it is a bit strange. It's not that I don't like you making noise, but you were _really_ noisy! We were in your room, which means Mrs Hudson was probably trying to sleep directly under us. Which, well, I was maybe a bit put off by the idea she might be listening. The thing is, you have to remember that our neighbours want to sleep at that time of night. They don’t want to hear shooting or explosions or, um, loud exclamations about, well, how good I am,” he said, adding the last part in a low voice even though he couldn’t help grinning. “And I do 'let go'. I'm just concerned that I might hurt you if I ‘let go’ too much.”

"I wouldn’t necessarily object to a little pain, you know,” said Sherlock, and although it sounded like another of his Sherlock-doesn't-understand-the-real-world things, John could tell that Sherlock knew exactly what he was saying. John's stomach lurched and his mind went momentarily blank. This conversation was making John's head ache. And some other parts too.

Sherlock waved his arm imperiously at a passing cab, but its hire light was off and it sped away.

"We might as well walk home," said John, seizing the opportunity to change the subject. He still wasn't comfortable with one-mile journeys that cost £20. "Or we could just take the bus."

"No need for a bus. We'll walk."

Sherlock sped up so John followed. In a bizarre way, it was sometimes quite relaxing to be with Sherlock. His personality was so overwhelming that there were occasions when John could just blindly follow him, reasonably confident that Sherlock would get them wherever they were going and John's lack of attention would go unnoticed. And if Sherlock got things wrong, it was his responsibility, not John's.

They’d only had sex four times - twice the first night, then once on Monday and once the previous night - but it looked as if Sherlock was as pushy in bed as he was in life. Which suited John fine too, especially given Sherlock’s interest in, well, buggery. It was from John’s point of view a perfect combination of worshipping the genius he lived with while performing an act that was not a million miles away from what he’d done with his many female lovers. In fact, John was thinking what a good arrangement this was on many levels when Sherlock stopped again. This time, he turned around and before John could react, Sherlock's lips were on his.

Now, by the age of 39, John had been kissed a lot. Quick snogs behind the bicycle shed at King Edward's Grammar School, drunken kisses at medical school parties, romantic kisses with girls he'd fallen in love with, deep kisses during sex when his tongue mimicked his prick and he was lost, drowned in the moist warmth of his lover's body. But he could safety say that he had never been kissed by surprise in the street.

Girls didn't usually initiate kisses; at least not the ones he'd been with. They'd lean their head on his shoulder and sigh, or lick or touch their lips suggestively, or smile and stare at his mouth, but he was always the one who bridged the gap to give them what they wanted. He liked it that way too; Harry said being manly with his girlfriends was his way of compensating for being a short-arse. Which he wasn't, so she was wrong.

But this was new and, once again, a bit scary. He was so surprised that his first instinct was to push Sherlock away, especially when he heard laughter somewhere nearby and a clearly audible "poofters" from elsewhere. Mostly, though, the kiss gave him a rush of adrenaline; the kind of rush he was addicted to, the rush that was the reason he put up with Sherlock in the first place. So instead of pulling away, he raised his free hand to the back of Sherlock's long neck, parted his lips and kissed his insane, maddening, irresistible... _lover_ back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Naughty bits herein. Oral sex specifically. No significant spoilers, however, except a passing mention of Irene Adler's profession.  
>  **Betas for this part:** The lovely [](http://01cheers.livejournal.com/profile)[**01cheers**](http://01cheers.livejournal.com/) overcame her dislike of Sherlock's cheekbones, and [](http://the-kinky-pet.livejournal.com/profile)[**the_kinky_pet**](http://the-kinky-pet.livejournal.com/) and [](http://rrane.livejournal.com/profile)[**rrane**](http://rrane.livejournal.com/) offered me in-depth advice on John's state of mind and my more convoluted sentences which was very much appreciated!

"Interesting," said Sherlock, straightening up. His lips were rosy and wet. "I thought you would push me away."

He readjusted his scarf and looked away, as if searching for something on the horizon.

"You know what London lacks, John? Alleyways."

"Right," said John, deadpan. His mouth was still tingling and he was more than a little turned on. "Because the first thing I want to talk about after being sexually assaulted on the Edgware Road is the local architecture."

Sherlock looked at him as if he were an idiot. "Somewhere private we could go right now. Close by, not in full view but convenient for immediate use. It would have to be clean though. I wouldn't want to get dirty knees."

"Okay," said John, clearing his throat at the thought of Sherlock on his knees. "Pain, public sex… are there any other sexual fantasies you'd like to share with me?"

Sherlock's face lit up with a cheeky smile. "Loads. Let's get home."

This time, he spotted an available taxi and stepped out in front of it, making it grind to a screeching halt. They bundled in, John having to clamber over Sherlock's long legs because as usual, he had plonked himself down at the end closest to the pavement-side door. The cab slowly made its way back into the lunchtime traffic.

Sherlock looked out of the window and said nothing more about sexual fantasies, so John followed suit. To be honest, John was a little surprised that the subject had come up at all, as there had been little evidence until today that Sherlock had sexual fantasies at all. John decided he would try to fathom how far the fantasies went before attempting to put any of them in practice.

Meanwhile, Sherlock's thoughts seemed to have moved onto a different topic.

"After you left, Lestrade said I should go slowly with you," he said suddenly. "The others all went off to snigger in peace and Lestrade said he didn't think I should have mentioned sex. I didn't even notice I had," he said with irritation. "But then I told you I couldn't think of anything else. So I told him we've been 'sleeping' together for four days, and he felt compelled to give me some advice."

“Right.”

John tried not to mind about that. He reminded himself that he'd been living in some whacky alternate universe ever since he'd met Sherlock and he might as well relax and go along for the ride. So Lestrade was giving Sherlock advice about his sexual relationship with John; that was all right. Really.

"It bothers you," said Sherlock, observing him intently.

"Yes." John noticed Sherlock's forehead creasing almost imperceptibly and added, "But I'll live. It's not as if they didn't all think we were doing it anyway. I suspect fantastic sex is the only reason people like Anderson and Donovan could think of why I'd be living with a nutter like you in the first place," he added with a laugh.

Sherlock smiled, but his troubled expression returned almost immediately. "People have definitely been talking about us. Although he didn't tell _me_ that, Lestrade has believed we were a couple for a while. He had rather a lot to say on the subject, so he has been considering it for some months, perhaps ever since you moved in with me."

"Yeah, I did notice how all the people you knew before me immediately assumed we were a couple," said John lightly, though now he thought about it, that had always seemed a bit odd. He'd house-shared with a man before without encountering quite so much innuendo.

Sherlock looked out of the window. "It doesn't matter. To be honest, I didn't listen to most of what Lestrade said. I'd just realised that you'd gone off with all the money we had on us and I'd have to wait for you to come back. I hope you have enough left for the cab, by the way."

"Sherlock! You're supposed to check that kind of thing _before_ you hail a cab, you know," said John, inspecting his jacket pockets.

Sherlock frowned. "I shouldn't have told them Anderson was right, should I? He said something about the way we have sex."

"It's okay."

"I embarrassed you."

"Okay, I have about fifteen quid here," said John, counting the contents of his pockets. "That should be enough."

"You were angry with Anderson because you're ashamed for me. You don't want people to know I'm gay. And you're embarrassed because you don't want people to think you're gay either."

 _Because I'm not,_ thought John, though he didn't think there was any point trying to explain the finer points of sexual identity to Sherlock, particularly given the evidence before him. John wasn't sure what he was anyway; "gay" didn't seem an adequate description. He was just John Watson. He liked pretty girls with long hair. He also liked Sherlock Holmes, who was maddening and brilliant and wonderful, and very much a man in every way that mattered. A man who called himself "gay", John realised as he replayed what Sherlock had just said. Maybe Sherlock didn't need an explanation after all.

"You're embarrassed by our relationship," concluded Sherlock.

John rubbed his forehead. "Oh, god, Sherlock. No, I'm not. I think you're reading too much into all this. There's a difference between someone -- Mrs Hudson, maybe, or Greg, I suppose -- knowing about us and being supportive, and I, well, I'd have liked it to remain our secret a little longer maybe. But I know they mean well. And then there's how someone like Anderson sees our relationship. What he said was crude and I overreacted. But I've wanted to deck him for months anyway."

"Okay. I get it," said Sherlock dismissively.

John laughed. "No, you don't."

"No, I don't," agreed Sherlock with a sheepish smile.

John picked up Sherlock's hand and kissed it. "Look, never mind. It's okay if people know about us. The important thing is that I love you and I love what we do. So stop being such a worrywart."

Sherlock suddenly looked out of the window again, his hand limp on John's palm. It probably wasn't the best reaction John had ever got to telling someone he loved them, but given what he knew of Sherlock's saturnine moods, he decided not to read too much into it.

Mrs Hudson came out of her flat to give John an Amazon parcel when they got in. Sherlock rolled his eyes and flounced upstairs, leaving John to discuss the books he'd chosen with Mrs Hudson. She said nothing about loud noises in the night.

"I'm popping out to lunch with Marie from next door in a minute," said Mrs Hudson finally. "Want me to pick anything up while I'm out?"

John raised the Costcutter bag. "No, it's okay, I got us some sandwiches."

Sherlock leaned over the banisters on the first floor landing above.

"John, come here!" he said urgently.

"My master's voice," said John with a sigh. "Sorry, got to go."

Mrs Hudson laughed and John ran up the stairs to see what his partner wanted. That became obvious as soon as he walked through the door into their living room. The tongue in his mouth and the hand on his crotch tipped him off. John tossed aside the box and the plastic bag he was carrying.

"God, John,” murmured Sherlock, pushing the door closed and pressing John up against it. “I thought you were going to talk forever!"

John noted that Sherlock really _had_ to be obsessed with sex to still be in the mood after their unrelated conversation in the cab. Unless something else had turned him on. Though their relationship was still in its infancy, it was already clear that Sherlock could be stimulated by things that weren't immediately apparent to John. Sherlock had ordered them both into his room the previous night while John was watching a repeat of "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?" and eating a bag of chips from the local chippy. Why those particular circumstances led Sherlock to want sex had remained a mystery.

Whatever the cause this time, John was now leaning against the door, head only just clearing the coat hook on the back, with Sherlock -- John could hardly believe it -- with Sherlock on his knees in front of him. Looking down, he could make out a prominent nose and a pair of ivory-white cheekbones beneath a mop of dark wavy hair, all in close proximity to his now inexplicably unfastened jeans. After that, to be honest, John didn't do much thinking for a while.

After twenty years of sexual activity, and having been blessed with a face that said "take me home to your parents", John had been the recipient of quite a few blowjobs. Most had been good, 99.9% had got him off, and one or two qualified as exceptional. This was admittedly only the second time Sherlock had tried this on him, and objectively speaking, it was probably towards the bottom half of "average". Fortunately, what Sherlock lacked in technique, he more than made up for in enthusiasm, and more importantly, in being _Sherlock_ , giving John a blowjob.

Just watching him perform the act was almost more stimulating than the act itself. The hem of his long coat was sweeping the floor and John could just see the turned up collar beneath Sherlock's hair. After a couple of minutes, Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes crinkling in a smile even though his lips were occupied, and John felt a familiar tightness in his groin.

"Sherlock, I'm there," he warned in a quiet voice. "Oh, Jesus, I'm so there."

Experience had shown that blowjobs were more likely to be repeated if he didn't catch his partner unawares at this point. But instead of stopping, Sherlock closed his eyes and kept going. Which John thought was one of the most exciting things that had ever happened to him.

Unfortunately, Sherlock rather spoiled the moment by pulling away as soon as John was done, coughing and spluttering.

"Oh god, that is disgusting," he wheezed.

"Spit it out, then, you silly sod," said John, bursting out laughing.

"Too late." Still on his knees, Sherlock shuffled towards the coffee table in front of the sofa and gulped down some cold tea from a cup made that morning. "I am never doing that again. That was horrible!"

"Oh, I don't know, _I_ enjoyed it." John fastened his jeans, still buzzing from his orgasm and finding the whole thing hilarious. He hung his jacket on the back of the door, and walked over to pat Sherlock on the head. "It's all right, I'll still love you if you don't suck me off."

Sherlock leaned into his touch and suddenly wrapped his arms tightly around John's hips, pressing his face hard against John's lower stomach. John's heart missed a beat. He stroked Sherlock's hair.

A few seconds later, Sherlock loosened his grip and stood up, back to his usual self. He gave John a knowing smile as he removed his own coat and scarf.

"Don't need these on anymore," he said, a hint of mischief in his small bright eyes.

"Oh, was that for my benefit?" John chuckled. He toed off his sneakers and sat down on the sofa.

"I thought it would make up for the lack of any convenient alleyways."

Sherlock glanced at the kitchen, perhaps thinking about getting a drink to clear the 'disgusting' taste from his mouth. But John patted the space beside him, and Sherlock came over to him instead. He sat bolt upright and John had to fold one leg underneath him to reach his lips.

"You're too tall," he said reproachfully.

Though he seemed tense, Sherlock's lips twitched into a smile. "Ah, so that's why you never slept with men before me."

"Yes. I'm way too short," said John deadpan, before pressing his lips to Sherlock's.

"I should brush my teeth," said Sherlock, shrinking away.

John held Sherlock's face between his hands. "Don't worry about it."

He opened his mouth against Sherlock's, sliding his tongue in. After a moment's hesitation, Sherlock responded enthusiastically, though he was frowning when John pulled away to get into a more comfortable position.

"You don't mind the taste." Sherlock looked faintly disgusted.

"No, cold tea is my favourite," said John with a grin.

His mind flitted back to a time at med school, when a girl had crawled up his body after a particularly satisfying bout of oral sex, and opened her mouth against his... Well, he'd tell Sherlock about that some other time.

"But you can brush your teeth or get a drink if it bothers _you_ ," added John when he'd reviewed a mental replay of the last few seconds. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have just kissed you like that."

"Why not?"

John cleared his throat. "Because it bothered you. I should have paid more attention."

"I won't break," said Sherlock simply.

John thought about the occasions when he'd seen Sherlock driven to tears or into a complete rage by things most people would have simply dismissed, and decided that he'd keep his own counsel as to when Sherlock should be handled gently.

"John, I've been thinking about sex with you all morning," said Sherlock, interrupting his musings. "I think we should do that now, before we have to go out again." He removed his shoes and socks as he spoke. "You can start by kissing me again and not treating me as if I'm made of glass."

On the other hand, maybe John would just do as he was told. As usual.

John chuckled at that thought and straddled Sherlock's lap. "Okay, what would _you_ like, then? The same?" He tilted his head towards the door. "Since we've established I don't mind the taste."

"Um, no. You don't have to." That could either be a 'yes, please' or a 'hell, no', but Sherlock gave John a hopeful smile and added, "I wouldn't mind a repeat of last night if you're up for it."

"I think it'll be a minute or two before I'm up for anything," said John with a laugh. "I'm no spring chicken, you know."

Sherlock frowned, his features in analytical mode as he traced the lines on John's forehead and ran the tips of his fingers through the grey at his temples.

"That's true," he said thoughtfully, though there was a mischievous glint in his eyes. "You're getting past it. With my cheekbones and brilliant intellect, I should have no trouble trading you in for a younger model."

"You wish!"

John shifted his weight onto one leg and tried to push Sherlock over sideways. His aim was to get him lying on his back on the sofa, but as Sherlock was as fit as he was, and taller, it turned into a bit of a wrestling match; John pushing downwards and Sherlock struggling to stay upright. John's instinct was to back off and let Sherlock win, but he noticed that Sherlock's pushes were perfunctory at best. So he put all his skill and weight into the struggle, until Sherlock suddenly flopped onto his back, breathless and transparently excited even though he wasn't yet physically aroused.

Straddling Sherlock's narrow hips again, John pinned Sherlock's hands above his head, making him squirm with an undignified whimper. John thought about Irene Adler's line of business and wondered if that was the kind of pain Sherlock had had in mind when he mentioned it earlier. If so, John was going to be hopelessly out of his depth. Despite his numerous partners, he had only ever had near misses with kinky sex; girls who seemed to like it rough or conversely, who tried scratching and biting him. But nothing had ever involved props or actual pain.

He stalled for time by unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt completely and pulling it along his arms; with the cuffs still done up, it caught on Sherlock's wrists, restricting his movements. Sherlock could easily have disengaged his arms or ripped the fabric, but he remained where he was, arms outstretched over the arm of the sofa as if John had tied them there. Encouraged, John stood on the floor and undid Sherlock's trousers to pull them down his legs, just low enough to allow him to bend his knees but constraining his calves. Though the restraint was minimal, Sherlock seemed content to allow it, watching John through hooded eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta:** Big thanks to 01cheers, rrane and the_kinky_pet who all worked so hard to work out what bothered me about this part. I hope you like how it finally turned out!  
>  **Author's note:** This part just didn't want to happen. I had a version of it written out when I posted the first two parts but it just wasn't working right. Then I was sick for ten days. Then I rewrote this and still wasn't happy. And now, I think I'm finally happier. Even though it looks as if actually resolving the issues raised here will take a whole other story (if I feel strong). I just hope it's a good read for all those of you who didn't have to suffer the rewrites. :)

John heard the click of the front door downstairs and surmised that Mrs Hudson had just gone out to lunch. He ran his hands flat down Sherlock's chest and stomach, then back up again, twisting his fingers into the sparse pale hairs across his pectoral muscles. John gently rocked his jeans-clad hips against Sherlock’s and thought about their earlier conversation. He wondered if he should try to repeat exactly what they had done the previous night. After being dragged into Sherlock's bedroom, John had given Sherlock a backrub which had not surprisingly led to sex, and judging by Sherlock's reaction that morning, it had been a hit.

Eyes closed, Sherlock hummed with appreciation, and John slid his hands onto the sofa to lean down and give him a deep kiss.

"I like this," said Sherlock into the kiss, apparently not realising that it was obvious even to John. Sherlock's body beneath John's hips was beginning to respond to the physical stimuli.

"Shh, I know."

John kissed him again, leaning up on his arms to keep his rough jumper off Sherlock’s bare skin and continuing the slow motions of his hips. After a moment, Sherlock's eyes flew open as if a thought had just occurred to him. He opened his mouth, closed it and then gave John a look as if he didn't know if he was allowed to speak. John pulled back and raised his eyebrows.

"Condoms in my coat," said Sherlock finally.

"Okay."

John reluctantly hefted himself off Sherlock and went to get the packet, slipping it into the pocket of his jeans. After their first time, Sherlock had apparently decided that the condoms John had bought for trysts with his girlfriends were not suitable, and procured a new set which had made their first appearance the previous night.

When he turned back, John paused to admire Sherlock spread out on the vomit-coloured fake leather sofa. His skin was so pale it looked almost cadaverous in the dim corner of their living room, but there was nothing but life and lust in his eyes. And the expectation that John was going to be "amazing" again.

"I have to warn you," said John, feeling suddenly nervous, "If you were serious about, um, pain, I have no idea what I'm doing."

"No change there, then," commented Sherlock, rolling his eyes.

"Oh, it's like that, is it?" said John, grabbing Sherlock's cashmere scarf from the coat hook. "Any more lip from you, young man, and I'm stuffing this in your mouth."

Sherlock's eyes widened, no doubt alarmed at the idea of choking on expensive fine fibres. John imagined actually doing it and decided it was a daft idea. He tried not to laugh.

"You don't have to take what I said literally," said Sherlock calmly. It was amazing how he managed to sound like his usual self despite being laid out on the sofa dressed only in his underwear, with his trousers round his ankles and his arms above his head.

John decided they were both going to lose interest if they kept up this conversation. "Okay, I'll remember that in future. Don't listen to what Sherlock says. Right. Now shush."

Reassured that he wouldn't have to do anything he wasn't comfortable with, John grinned wickedly as a thought came to mind. He hovered the scarf over Sherlock's chest, lowering it just enough to brush against his skin. Sherlock arched his back and groaned loudly. John smiled; although they had only had sex four times -- five counting this one -- he had soon realised that Sherlock reacted strongly to any kind of touch. He probably wasn't used to it. After all, one of the primary purposes of having sex -- aside from actually having sex -- was to get someone else to touch your body, and if Sherlock hadn't had sex, it followed that he probably hadn't been touched all that much. Lots of fun for John.

John continued to run the scarf over Sherlock's body, up the exposed underside of his arms, back to his pale chest, past his stretched briefs, all the way down his hairy legs to where his trousers were bundled around his ankles. That part looked a bit silly, so John pulled the trousers off.

Sherlock folded up one leg against the back of the sofa.

"John, I want you to lie on me."

The command brought John back to the moment. He took a look at Sherlock's flushed face and resisted the temptation to obey.

"No," he said quietly, though he smiled. "I'm busy."

Sherlock glared at him, but seemed prepared to play along. John continued his exploration with the scarf, and he was rewarded with another loud groan when it brushed Sherlock's inner thigh. Sherlock had perhaps heard the door closing earlier and deduced that they were alone too. Not that he probably cared either way. And for all his earlier admonitions, John found the sounds Sherlock made very satisfying to his own ego.

"John..." Sherlock tried again, breathing heavily through his nose; something that might under different circumstances have suggested unflattering parallels with a horse, but which under these particular circumstances made John decide it was time to move on.

John tossed the scarf onto the floor. Sherlock watched it fall with a displeased expression -- he bought very expensive clothes and, experiments gone awry aside, took good care of them. John distracted Sherlock by kneeling between his legs and pinching one of his nipples. The howl John got in response was completely out of proportion with the pain he'd caused and went straight to his groin. Okay, maybe just a little bit of pain was acceptable if it produced noises like that.

"You public schoolboy, you," said John teasingly, before leaning down to lick the flesh he had just pinched.

That turned out to be a mistake, because the next thing John knew, a silken shirt flew over his head and Sherlock's long arms and legs were wrapped around him. It took less than a second for the shirt to be discarded, leaving Sherlock's hands free to grab John's thick jumper and pull him down.

John didn't resist, laughing as he collapsed heavily onto Sherlock's chest. They kissed and John tried not to grind too hard against the warm body beneath him; he doubted that Sherlock was very comfortable with John's belt buckle digging into his lower stomach and a coarse Aran jumper rubbing his bare chest.

“Let me get these off,” said John, lifting himself up on one arm to unfasten his belt.

Sherlock helped, undoing the button on John’s jeans and unzipping his flies. Though John realised that was going to be the extent of Sherlock’s “help” when he felt a warm hand slide inside.

"Oh, dear god," breathed John, amazed at how quickly his own body had recovered.

Since he knew no one else was listening -- and since Sherlock had made such a big deal about him not letting go enough earlier -- John allowed a groan to escape his lips. Sherlock's face lit up with a delighted smile and he stroked John more firmly, so John closed his eyes and tried to relax and make whatever noises felt natural. Though after two decades of training himself to keep quiet, it wasn't as easy as he'd hoped.

"Are you up for it now?" asked Sherlock in a matter-of-fact tone.

John just had to laugh at how stubbornly self-centred Sherlock could be.

"Yes, all right. I'm ready to go again."

Sherlock shoved him off. John sat at the end of the sofa and undressed. Meanwhile, Sherlock bent both his legs up in the air to pull off his underwear. It offered John an unedifying view that would have been a turn off in any other situation. John had never found male bodies attractive, though watching gay pornography the last few weeks had at least made him realise that he didn't find them completely repulsive. Given the right circumstances, and sex with Sherlock certainly counted as the right circumstances, he'd found he could get quite turned on by the idea of what he could do with a man. Ella would probably have a field day trying to square that with John's instinctive reaction to Anderson's comment earlier.

Sherlock lowered his legs again and looked at John through the gap between his knees.

"It's a shame you don't want people to know about what we do," said Sherlock languidly. "You look amazing with nothing on. Here, give me a condom."

John laughed off the compliment and did as he was told. The previous night, he'd expressed mild dislike for the lubrication on the ones Sherlock had bought -- not something John had ever needed with girls so they were a bit of a surprise -- and Sherlock seemed to have taken that to mean he should be in charge of putting them on John. John certainly had no complaints about that arrangement.

"There you go,” said Sherlock. “Though I will enquire about a blood test when the current case is over. Can’t have you pulling that face _every_ time we have sex.”

“What fa-- no, look it’s fine,” said John, anxious not to start a conversation about condoms at this juncture.

“Now pass me something to lie on," said Sherlock as if he hadn’t spoken. He indicated John's clothes down at their feet. "I'm sticking to this stupid sofa."

John laughed and reached behind him; the first item he could grab was his jumper. He held it up and Sherlock gave a half shrug to indicate that it would do.

"Do you want to turn over?" asked John.

"Um--" Sherlock considered their respective positions and the width of the sofa. “Good point.” He turned over, lying face down with John's jumper underneath him, his head resting on his folded arms. "Well, this feels familiar," he said, his deep voice practically a purr. “Though we should try it the other way around some day.”

“Yes.” John lay down on him, kissing the soft white skin on Sherlock's broad shoulders. He liked this position; his bare skin was in contact with Sherlock's from his chest to his hips, and there were no legs in the way, just Sherlock’s warm body and the nape of his long neck under John’s lips. He gave it a gentle nip and shifted his hips.

“Ah,” sighed Sherlock. He shifted one arm out from under his chin and took John’s hand, holding it by his shoulder as if to brace himself for what was to come. “I suppose -- oh -- I suppose it's easier to forget I'm a man this way around."

"Hardly, especially with that voice," said John, though he was concerned by Sherlock's assumption. Now still wasn't the time to have a discussion, though. "We'll try the other way round when we're in a nice soft bed next time."

"No... oh... kitchen table next time."

"Please tell me you haven't made a list of... of places to have sex," said John.

"Too weird?" breathed Sherlock, his voice muffled by John's jumper beneath his face.

"Uh, surprisingly normal, actually. Now shut up."

"Oh, god... okay."

John looked down at Sherlock's profile outlined against the oatmeal-coloured wool and felt a surge of tenderness. He wondered what Sherlock got out of their physical relationship, aside from the obvious. He certainly seemed to enjoy this; John had always heard that it could be pleasurable, though he found that hard to believe.

Sherlock reached up blindly to twist his fingers into John's hair; his lips were parted, his small blue eyes open but unfocussed, his breathing heavy, every other exhalation carrying with it a loud grunt or groan, or nonsense words telling John to go harder and deeper.

John slid his free hand with difficulty in between the sweaty sofa and Sherlock's smooth skin -- or was it vice-versa? -- and held back for as long as he could, waiting for Sherlock to get every minute of pleasure he could out of this moment. The thought that their lunch was being squashed under a box of books was a useful distraction. Then Sherlock finally tensed beneath him, shouting incomprehensibly, and John was able to let go.

 _Okay, this time you can make noise,_ said the little coherent part of his brain, the one that always stayed on standby at times like this, to listen out for irate parents or enemy bombs or any sign that a neighbour could hear him. Usually to remind him to keep quiet. But not this time.

"God, I love you, Sherlock," said John breathlessly. "I love you so much."

Sherlock didn't say anything; he just lay where he was, still flushed and breathless. He looked thoughtful again, as if his brain was analysing what he should say. John decided being told he was loved was very much like being told he was clever; not something he should expect from Sherlock and therefore something he could live without. Sherlock would no doubt express his true feelings in a variety of odd ways as usual.

John kissed Sherlock on the cheek and after a long pause to get his breath back and convince his legs to work again, he went to dispose of the condom, grabbing his trousers and underpants on the way. When he came back, his lower half reasonably decent, Sherlock was getting dressed.

John wrinkled his nose when he realised Sherlock had used John's jumper to clean up.

"Is that revenge for your shirt the other night?" asked John, tossing it in the general direction of the bathroom, where their dirty laundry lived.

"I don't want you to think this doesn't mean anything to me," Sherlock blurted out.

John blinked in surprise and sat down beside Sherlock.

"When I was a little boy, I used to hide in the airing cupboard on the landing," said Sherlock, talking rapidly but keeping his eyes fixed on the floor. "I used to spend hours in there, humming and rearranging my Mind Palace until Mummy or Nanny would drag me out to eat or go to bed. Mummy sometimes sat on the landing and listened to me. Those were the best times."

John pictured Mrs Holmes kneeling on the floor at the top of her stairs while her little boy sat wedged in a cupboard, waving his arms and making odd noises. He felt sorry for her.

"I grew out of it, of course," continued Sherlock. "Both literally and figuratively. But there are times when I want that sensation again. Feeling... safe, I suppose. Just now, when you were on top of me, inside me, holding me down, it felt a bit like that. Like being safe and I don't know, being wanted, I suppose. It was nice." He looked at John and must have noticed his bewildered look, because he frowned and added, "Not good?"

"No, good. Very good," said John, though his insides felt oddly twisted. "A little intense, maybe. But good. Well, I _think_ I know what you're saying."

"I don't... care what people say about me. About us." Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. "I can't think about other people sometimes. It's just not _there_. I get absorbed and I forget about people. Even you."

"I've noticed," said John with amusement.

Sherlock frowned. "I don't want you to leave me. To leave me for someone normal."

Well, that was pretty blunt. 

"Sherlock, I just told you I love you," said John softly. "I'm not going to leave you."

"You must have told at least some of the women you have slept with that you loved them or they wouldn't have slept with you. But you still left them. So the words themselves mean nothing. They're a snapshot of an emotion at a point in time." Sherlock's voice sounded as cold and analytical as usual, but John wondered how much of that was an act when the topic suddenly changed. "Lestrade said I needed to be nicer to you. That otherwise you'd feel rejected and leave."

"Right, and you don't think a man whose wife is sleeping with their kids’ PE teacher might have a slightly jaded view of love?"

"The thought did cross my mind," said Sherlock, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "That's probably the point at which I stopped listening."

John stroked the thick dark hair at the back of Sherlock's head. "Well, for what it's worth, maybe you could be a bit nicer sometimes. But to be honest, I've put up with you for over a year now so I'm pretty used to it. It didn't make me leave when we weren't having steaming hot sex, so it's very unlikely to do that now."

He kissed Sherlock's cheek and they leaned back on the sofa together, Sherlock leaning on John's bare chest.

"I knew having sex with you was a good idea," said Sherlock smugly.

"Ah, another way to bind me to you, like giving me joint access to your bank account?"

"You use it more than I do. And I really like the sex." Sherlock rearranged his long body on the sofa until his head was in John's lap. "I actually didn't think I would when I offered, though I've always thought I might like _that_... which you think is weird," he said with a frown.

"No." John was feeling relaxed and happy, and in an honest mood. "Okay, a bit. It isn't something I've ever fancied doing myself. I suppose some day, you can show me." He felt a little alarmed when a thoughtful look settled in Sherlock's narrow eyes. "Some day in a very long time. When I've got over, well pretty much everything I've believed about myself for nearly forty years." He laughed. "God, I don't know what it is about you, Sherlock, but you... I'm not even gay. I mean really. And you're an ugly sod and you're a man, and for some reason, I just think you're the most gorgeous bloody thing I've ever seen in my life."

Sherlock looked pleased, though he raised his eyebrows. "Why? Because I'm clever or because what we do – I mean the ordinary things like solving cases – excite you? You gave up a safe job as an RAMC medical officer, normally kept away from combat duties, to perform as a field medic. You were miserable when you were discharged, until you met me. You like the thrill of what we do. What if I stopped having cases and took up... beekeeping?"

"Beekeeping?" John spluttered. "What– Why...? Oh, never mind. Okay. I might leave you if you took up beekeeping. Though you'd probably find a way to make it interesting."

"Well, yes, I would. Actually, I've always been interested in entomology. I could get a place, maybe on the South coast, set up an apiary and--"

John laughed. "Don't you dare! Just not-- yet. When we’re retired, maybe." He drew back to look at Sherlock. “Lucy was right, you know – the girl who dumped me a few weeks ago – you're the most exciting, wonderful thing that will _ever_ happen to me. And I’m not going to leave you because nothing will ever be better than this." He waved his arm airily. “So there you have it. You’re the most thrilling thing in my life and I’m your... airing cupboard.”

“A very sexy airing cupboard, of course,” said Sherlock ruefully. He lowered his eyes. “And the most important person in my life.”

John stroked Sherlock’s hair and let the thought sink in. “I’m a lucky man.”

“You certainly are,” said Sherlock with a twinkle in his eyes.

They both laughed. John leaned his head on the back of the sofa, enjoying their easy companionship and the feeling of Sherlock’s hair tickling his bared stomach. But when he glanced down through half-closed eyes, he caught a strange expression on Sherlock’s face, as if Sherlock knew something that John didn’t; something that made him immensely sad. 

But almost as soon as John had noticed it, it was gone, and Sherlock was talking about the Clapham Kidnapper and how he was going to find it hard to concentrate on the case after what they had just done. John wondered whether he should interrupt and remind him about the squashed sandwiches. But Sherlock started to review the clues in the entire case out loud and in excruciating detail. So John just smiled and thought he had never been happier.


End file.
